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  • I am an Iraq war veteran. I have been through hell, I've seen my best friend cry and beg for his mother. I thought I knew what unimaginable horrors were... Then I came to furco. If you want my quick review: don't go. You may be asking, why would you say that? I've been to every watering hole from here to San Jose, I've seen the world, I've slept with beautiful women. I've seen the most gorgeous things this life has to offer, I've seen solar eclipses, I've seen lovers hand in hand through the streets, I've seen a deer give birth to a doe, and none of this beauty existed at furco. The trauma began before I walked in, on the front porch in what I could only describe as a back alley, I was accosted by some québécois.. They fake farted on me and that was the best part about the experience. I walked in the bar and the music was pounding. It was this loud, throbbing, generic house music which set the mood for the bar as the rest of it was generic as well. But you probably want to hear about the drinks and food... What can I say about it. What can I say about what they were trying to pass off as these things. I ordered a whiskey sour. It was too much, the bartender was clearly a little heavy handed. It was basically a whiskey on the rocks. We ordered the charcuterie platter. It was described to me as the vast assortment of fine québécois delicacies, something that was supposed to tantalize the palate and match your drink in the most expertly crafted way. Instead what I got was some pickled vegetables from a can and some kitty food. Interesting combinations on the platter such as meat loaf and horseradish, stuffing with a pickled beet on top, some stale bread and some crowd-pleasing fatty bacon. The last time I had food this disgusting I was a POW in a cave in Afghanistan. The Taliban may be waging a jihad on us, but there's surely no jihad on flavor with them. I'd rather do another tour of duty than go back to furco
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